


lost and led only by the stars

by hikaie



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Acceptance, Adoption, Angst, Canon Temporary Character Death, F/M, Falling In Love, Female Reader, Flashbacks, Grief, Hurt No Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Past Relationship(s), Time Skips, United Nations, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-12-06 14:33:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11602617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hikaie/pseuds/hikaie
Summary: There had been a time before him, and there had been a time after. Your life in all its years boiled down to that: a pivotal moment, the soul changing experience of knowing him, of having him; of losing him. You hadn’t even known yourself, after.





	lost and led only by the stars

**Author's Note:**

> I pretty much wrote this for a friend because we both love Gabe _so, so_ much and also, I enjoy making my friends suffer. Heed the tags: here be sad endings. 
> 
> As usual I got off on some abstract ideas so if things need explaining let me know in a comment! Enjoy!
> 
> (Experience enhanced by listening to [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0EnrFe3Zb6k) and [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OXN5IszLch4) while I was writing. Thanks to Phe for the preliminary read-thru. <3)

_Now_

The first great snowfall of the season has hit the city. Luckily, you’re inside, nearly uncomfortably warm. On the wall behind the bar two flat screens on either side display the news and a sports channel. Captions belatedly filter in on either television; the news is the same, as it always is. The farther screen hosts a pair of sportscasters, one human and one omnic. The disparity of the content between the two sets is a bitter yet familiar irony.

“Another?” The bot behind the bar holds out a limp wrist for your glass. It’s a well-affected gesture. You shouldn’t, but… not for lack of trying, you always get sentimental at this time of year. So you nudge your glass towards his hand.

Whiskey can only make you forget so much.

* * *

 

_Then_

“I have something to do today.”

“Don’t go in.” You plead. Snow had fallen heavy like a blanket over Zurich the night before. The morning was cold and quiet and still. Under the covers you curl closer and run frigid toes up a furnace-warm leg. The man beneath you yelps.

“You little-”

Your mischievous giggling turns into a squeal as you’re pressed back into the sheets, rough hands tickling at your sides and manhandling you. The touch is only a mere facsimile of the true power he’s capable of. He blows a raspberry below your ear and proceeds to kissing across to your mouth.

“Just one thing. I’ll only be a few hours.” He promises, lips plush against your own. With a sigh, you press his unruly hair back from his forehead, and trace a reverent finger along the scar running through his left eyebrow.

“If I wait for you here in bed, will you hurry?” You curl a leg around his thigh and pull him in, hoping to entice him with your embrace. Supporting himself on his elbows, he tugs on the end of your hair.

“I’ll try.”

* * *

 

_Before_

With dawning horror, you realize the man standing in front of you, drenched in scalding coffee, is a ranking member of Overwatch. The entire expanse of your career flashes before your eyes; the tireless years you spent waiting tables in college; your very first internship; the months-long process to secure the job you’ve been comfortably clinging to for two years now, which suddenly seems to have dissipated before your very eyes. All of it, gone in a flash, because you spilled your boss’ coffee on Gabriel Reyes.

“I’m so sorry!”

His face is shrewd, eyes narrowed arms spread wide in the universal gesture of “inexplicably made wet.” He has the kind of aura that has you _immediately_ quaking in your boots. As the silence following your apology stretches on, you’re mortified to hear the coffee begin a steady _drip-drip_ into a puddle on the floor.

“It’s fine.” He grits out; the way his jaw tics suggests otherwise. He brushes past you. Frozen partially out of fear, partially out of confusion, you only step-to when you hear his far-off voice bark an order at some unfortunate soul.

* * *

 

_Now_

You flex your hands. The cold makes your joints hurt, even the prosthetics. It has a way of getting into the metal and hurting something fierce. You slosh through the dirty snow on the sidewalk. Periodically the streetlights will throw your shadow far behind you, lurching through the poles. The city is alive around you, happy late-21st century families chattering and enjoying the festive weather.

The brick grows familiar; the alleys are narrower between the buildings, here. They’re old constructs from the ‘20s, late-‘40’s additions crowning their tops. Some windows are dark, others display richly decorated trees; tiny gingerbread families; childishly finger-drawn, frost-exposed menorahs.

In the window next to the green door you approach, a haphazardly-decorated, spindly Christmas tree can be seen. On top, an angel crookedly sits, tiny porcelain hands grasped in prayer. You ring the doorbell.

* * *

 

_Before_

Jack Morrison is an imposing figure; one of honor, and patriotism, and fighting spirit. He is robust in his duties. He has the same build as most military men; chiseled jaw, broad shoulders, and a self-assured posture that’s been beaten into him. No matter how intimidating he can be, he has the type of personality that makes you smile, or provokes the occasional laugh. They dub him a good ol’ boy.

So it’s no surprise when he ascends the ranks of Overwatch to a Command position. You sit in on that conference, dutifully taking minutes. Representative Haufman congratulates him with a hearty handshake. Morrison is all smiles and platitudes. This is what you’re a part of, now. It makes you proud.

* * *

 

_Then_

The automated lock to your off-base apartment chimes when you hold up the keycard. Opening the door reveals a ransacked living room. Papers litter the floor, smeared with boot prints. The couch is overturned, cushions askew. In the kitchen, the cabinet doors hang open. It feels as if your whole life has been laid bare, for the sake of a tragedy. When you need stability most your foundations keep crumbling away beneath your feet.

Something agonizingly like a sob threatens to choke you, to bubble up and vomit out. Just a sob. (You swallow it down, and get to work cleaning up.)

* * *

 

_Before_

“Hey.”

The voice behind you makes you jump and causes nondairy creamer to fly across the counter. You barely contain your swearing.

“Pardon?” You glance over your shoulder, and freeze in your attempts to clean up the powder.

“Huh. You just got bad luck with coffee all around, don’t you?” It’s Reyes. He’s in regulation workout clothes- dark hoodie, loose active shorts. His hair is close-cropped. He has two neat scars across his face, warm eyes, and a child’s pink, weaved bracelet on his left wrist.

“Again, I’m so sorry about that.” You hurriedly scoop all the spilled creamer into a pile and brush it into your hands. He approaches the counter and fiddles with the settings on the coffee maker.

“Hey, I _wanted_ to get outta those dress blues.” The machine sputters to life and fills the break room with the aromatic scent of hazelnut coffee.

“Well, I’m glad to have done you a favor, then.” It has been a _long day_ of conferences, and yelling behind closed doors, and yelling conferences behind closed doors. Your usual tact for small talk has escaped you. Reyes snorts.

“Right. Well,” He scoops up his mug, fluorescent bracelet pulled taut on his (frankly huge) wrist. “-thanks, then, [Y/N].”

By the time he’s left, you’ve finally caught up enough to be shocked he knows your name.

* * *

 

_Then_

“You _promised_ me.” You hissed.

Angela looks impressively uncomfortable. “I didn’t know- couldn’t have known it would be this-”

“Neither did I!” You pull your legs up onto the couch and curl into yourself, avoiding looking directly at the comm window displayed on the screen across the room. “I just… I can’t do it, Ang.”

She’s quiet for so long, you have to look up to see if the line has dropped. Her face is contemplative. “Are you sure about this? A child is… a wonderful gift. Just because of Zurich-” You flinch and she quiets.

“Please. You gave me your word.”

Angela looks so tired. There are deep bags beneath her eyes and her hair looks even more unkempt than usual. You know that this is asking a lot of her. To call in your one favor so soon and for something so drastic is against so many of her values. “Alright.” She says. You let out a shaky breath.

* * *

 

_Now_

“Mom.” Walker leans back, pleasant surprise evident on his face, as if this isn’t your routine. “Come in.”

His house is warm, and well-lived-in. There are pictures on a shelf in the foyer, and a faded rug on the floor. From the living room you can hear the vibrant sound effects of a children’s game. The entire house smells like apples and cinnamon.

Walker takes you into the kitchen. Rebecca is sitting at the table, scrolling through a datapad. She looks up as you both enter, smiling.

“[Y/N]. We didn’t think we’d see you this year.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t miss it.” You sink into the chair Walker pulls out and start shedding your layers. You let your winter coat drape over the back of the chair, and your windbreaker follows, and you unwind your scarf carefully and add it to the pile. Lastly, you pluck your gloves from your hands, and leave them on the tabletop. You don’t miss the flicker of Rebecca’s eyes towards your metal fingers.

“Chase.” She calls, and stands from the table. “Come in here and see your grandmother.”

* * *

 

_Before_

“Are you the only stenographer the UN has?”

You look up from the papers and datapad spread out in front of you on the conference table. The others had left long ago; you’d been poring over them for quite some time, if the light coming through the blinds said anything.

“No, just the best. Can I help you Reyes?” You sit up straighter. He seems surprised you know his name. Pulling his own game over on him brings a smile to your face.

“So one of you knows my name after all.”

You cock your head. “You tend to pick these things up in my profession.”

Something almost like a smile comes to his lips; it’s more like a twitch at the corners, gone as soon as it had come. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”

You shuffle your documents into a pile and paper clip them together. “Is there something you needed the room for? I didn’t intend to overstay my welcome.”

“I saw the light on.” He shrugs, stuffing his hands into the pocket of his hoodie as he does so. “Why are you working so late?”

“Paperwork and reports don’t file themselves.” You smile blithely at him. “Something those in charge of Overwatch don’t seem to understand.”

He doesn’t even flinch at the underhanded comment. “Aren’t political opinions outside of your rights?”

It’s a parry, verbal blow for verbal blow. You stand up straight from ordering your documents. “Isn’t belittling me outside of your position?”

Now, you see an honest smile come to his face, just a curl at the corner of his mouth and a twinkle in his eye. He hesitates in the doorway a moment before opening his mouth, finally, to say, “Turn the lights out when you leave.”

* * *

 

_Then_

You only get a moment with him, in the hospital.

The lights in the delivery room are bright. There’s a nurse standing off to the side, and the parents are out in the hallway. It’s really only the two of you, here, in this moment; your hair is sweat-slick against your forehead and scalp, and he’s still squirming, warm and wrinkly and, heartbreakingly, beautiful. He’s so small and loud, fingers grasping at your gown weakly.

There are tears in your eyes, for some reason. You raise a hand to carefully adjust a corner of his blanket, wiping delicately at the dampness of his hair. He gurgles. Perhaps there are a lot of things you could say. Something heartfelt to remember when he’s an adult; to tell him one day. But nothing comes to you. You shift in the hospital bed and clutch him just a tad closer, sucking in a quiet noise as your tears fall. His nose is small but he’s a heavy one, and he has a scant amount of soft, dark hair. The shape of his eyes, his ears; his tiny fingers.

They look so much alike.

* * *

 

_Before_

There had been a closed door meeting, today. Two of your superiors, Commander Morrison, you, your typewriter, and-

Commander Reyes.

You hadn’t known that was his rank. Of course, you also hadn’t known that what he commanded even existed.

The door behind you on the terrace whooshes open. You look over your shoulder to see the very man you’d just been thinking of freeze in the doorway. You both share a look before you cast your eyes away. You’re at the base outside of Bergen this time, and the air here is cold.

Something has been broken, in your fragile colleagueship. Deep-cutting jibes traded over the years at different bases, shared cups of coffee, hours-long meetings spent with the same people, rolling your eyes at the same things. You imagine, there are many things you don’t know about many of the people you work with. There are requirements made of them, to be in this line of work. They all have a past. Some, a present. It is all for the “greater good.”

“You’ll catch a cold.” He says, conversationally.

You survey your hands and pick at the corner of a close-cut nail. In your career you had heard a lot of things, and recorded them all without a blink. “I needed some air.”

He’s in that same casual hoodie as always. It’s familiar, you realize, as he comes to stand next to you at the railing. There’s a tear in the collar, right at the center; purposefully made for broad shoulders. You duck your head.

“Hey,” He rests a hand on the railing. You know without looking that he’s looking at you. “Are you okay? I know today was-”

You inhale sharply and turn your head pointedly away from him. He falls silent. Then, “I see.”

And it’s not _him_ you can’t stand, it’s not really _him_ that makes your stomach churn with nausea. It’s deeper than that, this knowledge that something you’ve been a part of for so long is so much darker. Of course it makes sense. There are poster boys and there are those that get things done. The bliss you had lived in had been shattered, but _he_ wasn’t the culprit. You know the crime rests firmly in the hands of those who had issued the orders; the _highest_ ones, not him.

In this moment, he stands for it all, though, and you feel sicker by the second.

You realize that he’s walked away not only by the soft footfalls but by the shifting of his weight, his warmth gone from where he’d been standing close beside you. The door whooshes shut behind him.

* * *

 

_Then_

It wakes you up, about six years after the fact. A feverish dream, familiar only in opaque shapes, smoke and heat. Imagined screams. You’re numb to it, numb to the sleeplessness. You tear out of bed and find your datapad, but you think better. Somehow you rustle up some paper and a pen, scribbling frantically. You remember a time, long ago, when you had been forced to shed the naivety of your youth and accept that sometimes the good guys were the bad guys. Why it hadn’t occurred to you until now, you don’t know. It’s a nauseating epiphany. Another sleepless night, but with something to show for it.

* * *

 

 

_Before_

“I heard you got a promotion.”

He’s shaved, since the last time you saw him, and gained a new scar across his face. You’ve been bouncing between bases and the UN headquarters for so long you hardly remember the last time you’d spoken; a chilly night in Norway is distant in your memory.

“I heard you forgot how to duck.”

He cracks a familiar smile. You adjust your badge and your shirt, and look around your sparse office. “Something you needed?”

“Just… checking in. It’s been awhile since we spoke, and now that you’ll be around…” His eyes slide from your face to the placard on the door, and he knocks a finger against it. Reyes clears his throat. “We’ll be getting to know one another.”

“Will we?”

No sardonic smile, at least on his mouth. His eyes tell a different story. “Absolutely.”

* * *

 

_Then_

“Do you know what you’re suggesting?” Angela asks you, voice hushed. You’d travelled a long way to have this conversation in person, but all walls have ears and eyes in this day and age. “It’s not only absurd, but dangerous.”

“I don’t _want_ it to be true.”

She puts a hand on your wrist and meets your eyes with an earnest expression. “Listen to me, [Y/N]. Let this go, for everyone’s sake. If it is true the UN was involved, it only means trouble. If it is true, we are lucky. Do you understand?”

It’s not meant to offend you; you know that what Angela is saying is true and _logical_. You’d chalked this madness up to grief, or a prudish moral compass, but the truth that you face now is that you want revenge, and nothing short of it. “I can’t. I can’t just let them get away with it.”

Her expression softens. After a moment, she says, “I understand.”

“But you can’t help me.”

She smiles sadly. It’s answer enough.

* * *

 

_Before_

You look up at a knock on your door and sigh. As you turn your eyes back to your screen and resume typing, you ask, “What now?”

“Can’t I just drop in?”

“No, you’re a troublemaker.” You shove the chair on the other side of your desk out. He doesn’t take the offer.

“Really, I was just saying hello.” Finally you spare him another, more considering, glance- he’s standing in the doorway with a coffee tray in one hand and the other stuffed into a pocket. You blink, and without steeling yourself for it your heart races. Your typing peters off.

“Oh. Hi.” He smiles and takes one of the cups out of the drink tray, then offers it to you.

“You’ve stayed late every night this week, I thought you might want coffee.”

“Right. Paperwork, you know?” You don’t reach for the coffee straight away, you just stare at him.

“Well… This troublemaker has clearly overstayed his welcome.” He gestures a crude wave goodbye with the tray and ducks out of your office.

(When you finally take a sip, it’s exactly how you like it.)

* * *

 

_Then_

Hot pain flares in your wrist as its ground beneath a heel. Your fingers spasm and release the datachip, unceremoniously retrieved by gloved fingers. “What have we here?”

You hiss and flail, kicking at the figure holding you down with only a foot. He’s finely dressed in an expensive, tailored and pressed suit. His hair is slicked back and he has a rather plain face. On his left hand he wears two rings, over gloves. These types, they’re all the same. Too wont for dramatic flair.

He doesn’t even flinch when you kick him. He flips the chip between his fingers and retrieves a small datapad from beneath his jacket, then inserts the chip. You writhe and kick at his knee, hard. He buckles and swears, and you manage to free yourself. You’re not but a few yards away when you realize he still has the chip, securely inserted into his datapad. You whirl around.

The man is adjusting his tie and pressing his hair back into place. There is a clear bootprint on the lower leg of his slacks. “That’s right, I have something you want.”

“No one has to get hurt.” You say, though your voice cracks and your wrist throbs as a physical reminder that, were you even able, you’d be running at half capacity. He laughs.

“You think you’re clever, hm?” Audio begins to play through the speakers of the datapad. It chimes incessantly as documents load. He turns an eye on it and makes a small noise of surprise. “I see. My, we do have a liability on our hands.”

There’s a noise like groaning metal, and the sound of heavy, slow footsteps somewhere from the catwalks. An acrid, rotting stench reaches your nose. Your heart pounds in your chest. Almost three years of work, of research and infiltration, leading up to this moment. The information had been in your grasp, for all of ten minutes. Far above you, a door opens, and the blaring security alarms in the base carry down in a harsh echo.

“I think I should teach you a lesson.”

* * *

 

_Before_

It takes you a few dates to realize _you’re dating_.

A part of you thinks, _well, it’s been a long time coming, hasn’t it?_ You watch as Gabriel digs into his lo mein, searching through it with chopsticks for a stray piece of shrimp. He looks up and smiles, and you’re startled to realize you can tell he’s self-conscious.

“Everything alright?” The TV in the breakroom is playing some local gameshow, announcer quickly reeling off a language you can’t place. The two of you haven’t exactly been able to go off base outside of sanctioned missions, so maybe that’s why it’s taken so long for you to realize what’s been going on.

“Yeah, I just…” You push a dumpling around your plate and duck your head. You glance up at him and he’s gone back to digging in his food. “Yeah.” You breathe.

* * *

 

_Then_

It’s always the same dream, isn’t it? Familiar only in opaque shapes, smoke and heat. Imagined screams.

* * *

 

_and, Then_

The question comes through his parents, and you spend a long time considering the answer while you’re stuck in rehabilitative care.

What is there to tell? In an abstract way you can understand how your son must yearn to understand why you had given him up. But how can you explain to an eight year old child that the terrible grief of familiar eyes was too much for you to bear? That after the fact, your capability to form that emotional bond had all but left you? How could you explain to him that you loved him, always had and always would, but you knew that you weren’t the kind of person who could be a parent?

How could you explain that it had always been _him_ destined to be the loving parent?

So he wants to know, your son; who had his father been? Why did he only see you, and never him? Had he been a good man?

(The truths you can spare: you wanted him to have a better life, the best life. His father would have adored him. He was one of the best men you had ever known. And when he’s older you tell him: sometimes people go away, and they never come back, but you might see one another one day. He’s smart, like Gabe, so he understands.)

* * *

 

_Before_

Your head knocks against the wall as he pushes you up against it. He’s so… _firm_ , all over, in all the right place. His biceps where you clutch him, his chest pressing into yours, his hands on your sides. Gabriel digs his thumbs into your skin so that you squirm, open your mouth. His lips, those are firm too; a little wet and sucking on your bottom lip as it’s offered. You let out a noise.

“God, I’ve wanted to-” He pulls away, breathless.

“ _Gabe-_ ”

He moans appreciatively and reclaims your mouth, the kiss searing. Your hands are trembling where you’ve dug them into his hoodie. He smells like sweat and gun smoke and _Gabriel, Gabe, Gabe_ in your nose and your lungs and you shake against him. He pulls you closer, somehow, stealing your breath away. He holds you carefully, hands so broad and warm, liable to crush you were he not holding back. It sends a spike of want coursing through you.

In your haze he moves from your mouth to your jaw, down and across your throat. He’s saying something, mumbling really, beyond your comprehension, but then his lips are on your earlobe and you endure a full-body shiver. He whispers his admission, voice low and serious, asks if you’re listening. His thigh slots between yours and presses upward. When he pulls back your eyes meet, and your face burns. He watches you so intensely- he always does, really, you realize, but right now it’s… different. His lips are kiss-swollen and wet, his pupils blown. Your heart lurches.

“Me- too-” You stutter, even as his thigh presses upward and forces a breathy noise out of you. He smiles, some mixture of filthy and ( _heart pounding, thighs quivering)_ endeared. Gabriel leans in and undoes the top button of your shirt, kissing the exposed skin there. You watch only for a moment as he begins a steady trail downward, popping buttons and sinking to his knees. With a hand on his shoulder to steady yourself you lean your head back, squeezing your eyes shut.

“Oh god.” You whisper, and the bastard laughs.

* * *

 

_Then_

The air conditioner kicks on and you watch the man across the table flip through his papers.

“What was the last thing Commander Reyes said to you?”

It’s such a simple question, but it makes your throat close up. The past few days have been a whirlwind of confusion. The closest semblance of emotion you can even identify in yourself right now might be described as “hollow.” You’ve done your crying, and the pain in your eyes and throat attest to it plenty. You take a sip of your water and clear your throat roughly.

“He said he had to go into work, and I asked him not to go.”

“Is that all?” The man pauses in his flipping, turning bored eyes upon you.

“No, I-” You clear your throat again. “He took a shower. I told him to have a good day. He said-” Your eyes burn, but you have nothing left to give. “He said he loved me. I said… it back. He left.”

“And that was the last conversation you had with Gabriel Reyes?”

“Yes.”

The papers shuffle and you stare at a deep scratch in the table. You haven’t been in UN headquarters in so long, but this table has been here for years. You remember it. There had been conferences, held at this very table; with Wilhelm and Amari and Morrison and-

“Next order of business.” The man says.

Numbly, you nod.

* * *

 

_Now_

Walker and Rebecca walk ahead of you on the sidewalk, herding Chase past storefronts when he gets distracted. The snowfall has begun to peter out, flakes falling slowly, with the kind of romantic Christmas spirit reserved only for movies.

After your indiscretions lost you your arm and nearly your life, you had faced some hard truths. Gabriel was gone; he had been gone for a long time. Revenge wouldn’t solve that. Though you had given him up, Walker’s adoption was open and when you recovered you realized how foolish jeopardizing even the tremulous relationship you _did_ have with him was. You’d resigned yourself, during that period. When he had grown up, Walker had sought a closer relationship with you and you let it happen. Cards were exchanged, phone calls and e-mails. You had few connections left to speak of, so visiting during the holidays wasn’t out of the way for you, if they’d have you. And they usually did.

You still have trouble slotting yourself into their happy life. Rebecca is beckoning Chase away from a window display of high quality drones. When he joins his mother and father it sends a pang of longing coursing through you; in his adult years, Walker has begun to resemble Gabriel even more closely. You can see in him the breadth of his shoulders, the arch of his cheekbones, the curve of his nose. Sometimes it catches you off guard, the picture perfect family they make, what you almost had. You swallow it down.

Something prickles at your senses, your years of hyper-vigilance causing you to stop and assess your surroundings. There are plenty of families out shopping and caroling, and bots are strolling the sidewalks as well, harmonious if only for the evening. An alleyway branches off on the opposite side of the street to your right. It almost appears as if the shadows move, but when you pass by, it’s empty. You chalk it up to an overinflated sense of wariness and pick up the pace.

You should spend some time with your son. He’s all you have left, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> The 'Now' is around Reflections in-universe; 'Before' is pre-fall/Swiss HW explosion; 'Then' is post-Swiss HQ explosion. In general the timeline for this is wonky because I couldn't be assed to wrap my head around the mess that is Overwatch's "canon" timeline.


End file.
